‘I can see you have a high opinion of him as a film director.’
‘Of course I have,’ she replied. ‘I mean to say, we are going out together.’
‘Is that a fact?’
‘Well, to tell you the truth’ – she couldn’t resist a naughty-little-girlish giggle – ‘we’re staying in together, if you follow me.’
‘Is that why he gave you a part in the picture?’
‘What?’
‘I asked you if that was why he gave you a part in the picture?’
The actress was outraged by the question.
‘What a beastly thing to say!’ she finally cried. ‘It wasn’t my fault Patsy Sloots got hers in that fire. Inspector, I don’t know who this woman is, but I simply refuse to stay here and be insulted by her.’
‘Yes, Miss Mount,’ said Calvert, ‘I do have to agree with Miss Drake. I cannot accept there’s any call for you to be so systematically hostile to witnesses who, after all, are doing their best to be of assistance to us. If you don’t mind, I’ll take charge of the inquiry from now on.’
The novelist mutely declining to reply, he began to pursue his own line of questioning.
‘Miss Drake, what were your personal feelings towards Cora Rutherford?’
‘I really don’t know what to tell you.’
‘Just tell me what you thought of her. It’ll go no further than here.’
‘She’s not somebody I gave much thought to one way or the other. She was foisted on Rex, you know. He didn’t choose her for the film and, if he’d been, well, a free agent, I don’t suppose for a single second he would have.’
‘That may well be true. Yet, in this very room, just a little while ago, Mr Hanway himself voluntarily admitted to us that he had been wrong. That he’d been tremendously excited by the way her performance was turning out.’
‘Did Rex say that?’
‘Yes, he did.’
‘Oh well,’ she replied carelessly, ‘that was very handsome of him. But so like Rex. He’s such a generous person.’
‘You yourself were not impressed?’
‘I’d rather not speak ill of the dead, Inspector.’
‘You just did,’ Evadne Mount muttered under her breath.
There ensued a silence which, even though it lasted only a few seconds, began to seem awkwardly protracted to the young actress, who must eventually have felt it incumbent on her to bring it to an end.
‘Oh, Cora was all right in her way, if you like that kind of thing. But really, Inspector, let’s face it. I mean, she was a bit – well, quite a lot more than a bit – past it. So p’raps,’ she ended pleasantly, ‘p’raps what happened was, you know, all for the best.’
‘All for the best?!’ Evadne let out an indignant snort. ‘Do my ears deceive me, you – you – or are you actually suggesting that Cora ought to consider herself lucky to have been murdered?! Is that really what you’re saying?’
‘Oh no, no, no, that’s not at all what I meant! I think it’s most unfair of you, taking the words out of my mouth like that. And out of context too. Of course, it’s dreadful that Cora was killed, dreadful. All I meant was – well, she didn’t really have too much of a future, did she, so it’s not so bad – I mean, it’s not quite so bad – as it would be if somebody like – well, somebody younger and prettier – oh, now you’ve got me so mixed up I’ve quite lost track of what I do mean.’
‘That’s all right, Miss Drake,’ said Calvert diplomatically, ‘that’s all right. It’s been a trying situation for you.’
Sensing that it would be futile to prolong the interrogation, he offered his hand to her.
‘And thank you so much for coming in. You’ve been most helpful.’
‘I tried to be, Inspector, I really tried.’
‘I know you did. And you’re free to go. But – this is just a formality – please don’t make any travelling plans without first advising me.’
‘Oh, I do understand. In any case, now that this picture looks as though it’s up the spout, I hope quite soon to start rehearsing a play in the West End. The Philadelphia Story? It’s by Sir James Barrie, you know?’
‘Is it really?’ Calvert tactfully agreed. ‘Well, I do wish you better luck in your theatrical career than you’ve had so far in the films. Thank you again and goodbye.’
‘Goodbye to you, Inspector,’ she mumbled almost tearfully. Then, looking neither at Trubshawe, who had said nothing at all, nor at Evadne, who had said much too much, she once more gathered her coat about herself and hurried out of the room.
A moment later, Calvert turned to the novelist and wagged an emphatic index finger at her.
‘Really, Miss Mount, really …’
Chapter Twelve
‘Sit down. Please.’
Without offering a word of thanks, grasping a bizarre carpet-bag decorated with ornate, cod-Oriental motifs, out of which protruded a formidable pair of knitting-needles, Hattie Farjeon sat herself down in the chair towards which she had been motioned by the Sergeant. Since she accorded only the briefest of glances to Evadne and Trubshawe before turning wordlessly away again, Calvert didn’t this time feel any obligation to make the usual excuses for their unorthodox presence or even to introduce them to her by name.
Fiftyish and frizzy-haired, dumpy, frumpy and also, or so it already appeared, permanently grumpy, Hattie Farjeon, it has to be said, was not an attractive woman. Yet there was something perversely frustrating about her physical and sartorial drabness. It was almost as though she had laboured hard to present the least prepossessing image of herself to the world. True, she was never going to win first prize in a beauty contest. Yet, one couldn’t help wondering, did her hair have to be as unkempt as it was? Did her complexion have to be so speckled and blotchy? Did she really have to wear a blotter-green two-piece suit fraying at every hem at once? Above all, did she have to confront her fellow human beings – human beings who, given encouragement, might well have been prepared to meet her halfway – with such an insulting absence of curiosity?
But that, it seems, was Hattie. Take me or leave me as you will, her ungiving corporeal language seemed to be saying, but don’t expect me to care either way.
‘I’d like to thank you, Mrs Farjeon,’ said Calvert, politely neutral, ‘for agreeing to be interviewed. We have met before, you may remember, when your late husband’s villa burnt down in that terrible fire.’
There was no response from Hattie.
‘And – and, eh, I do assure you, I won’t take up more of your time than I absolutely have to.’
Still no response.
Calvert started to feel that, if he didn’t ask a direct question soon – the sort of question a refusal to answer which could no longer simply be ascribed to natural taciturnity but would constitute an outright provocation – he’d become too unnerved to be capable of posing any question at all.
‘You are Hattie Farjeon, are you not?’ he asked.
‘I am.’
‘The widow of Alastair Farjeon, the film producer?’
‘Director.’
‘Ah, yes. Ha ha, sorry about that. Yes indeed, I always do seem to get it wrong. For a layman like me, uncoached in these matters, the difference between the two isn’t as clear-cut as it might be, but I suppose, for you people in the picture business …’
His voice trailed off. Silence.
It was time to come to the point.
‘Tell me, Mrs Farjeon, why have you been turning up at the studio every day?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘I asked why you still regularly make an appearance on the set. I mean to say, I realise that this picture was originally your husband’s project, but after his tragic accident there would seem to be no practical reason for your presence. Or is it that you see yourself as – well, as they say, the Keeper of the Flame?’